


Because the Night

by Thymesis



Category: Berserk
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, POV Third Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Xeno, Yuleporn, Yuletide 2017, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-18 17:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13105446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymesis/pseuds/Thymesis
Summary: Femto approaches, but he does not demand Gut’s death.Tonight, just like countless other nights before this one, he demands an entirely different manner of sacrifice.





	Because the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antheeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheeia/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Interlude](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7668292) by [Thymesis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymesis/pseuds/Thymesis). 



> Either a remake or a sequel…up to the reader to decide!

The demons come at night.

They shriek in their unholy, discordant chorus for his flesh, and they pursue him without mercy. One, and then two, and then three rise from the depths of hell to confront him. Ten. A hundred. A thousand. A hundred-thousand. No matter how many he cuts down, and how fast he cuts them down, there are always more, more, more, and still _more_.

He is surrounded now. Limitless hordes of unspeakable undead monstrosities converge upon him from all sides. He swings his sword, and three of the demons fall. He swings his sword again and lays waste to four more of the hideous creatures. Their putrid stench turns his stomach. He swings his sword yet again, but it is as futile as trying to hold back the ocean tide with only the strength of his hands.

He’s brought to his knees, exhausted, as weak as a newborn babe; he is about to be overwhelmed. No, he will not survive this night.

“Forgive me, Casca,” Guts whispers as he closes his one good eye, resigned at last to his fate, awaiting the end…

…but the end does not arrive.

The demons do not dismember and devour him. Instead, they have withdrawn in chittering, cringing obeisance, parting like waves before he who would reign over them.

He will not look, but he can hear the whispering, rhythmic beat of wings on the wind, the dull thump as inhuman feet touch down on the ground. Femto approaches. The Brand of Sacrifice burns with crippling, paralyzing, white-hot agony.

_I will be the one to decide the place where you die._

He does not demand Gut’s death. Not tonight, no, no, not tonight. Tonight, just like countless other nights before this one, he demands an entirely different manner of sacrifice, of supplication, _of submission_ , from Guts.

Fell talons as sharp as razors graze the bloody brand as they slice through the leather straps of his armor and shred his clothing. They tear his breeches open as well, brushing dangerously, tauntingly close to his groin as they do so, exposing him to the chill air. He knows that those talons will get closer still—much closer—to his vulnerable flesh before this night is over. The tattered remnants of his breeches are yanked remorselessly down past his hips, and he is pushed flat onto his back, his legs spread widely apart.

_I always get what I want._

There is no preparation. There never is. Just the weight of a supple, muscular chest pressed against his own and the hot, huge, slick-soaked… _thing_ pushed mercilessly deep inside of him, splitting, tearing him open. Pain and pleasure both set his spine alight, bursts of electricity ricocheting along his nerve endings, and Femto begins to thrust.

He will not look; he refuses to look. But he can feel Femto’s breath on his face, smell its sweet, cloying fragrance. He can feel the wicked talons nicking his skin as he is caressed and the tip of the tongue which traces the pattern of the brand on his neck, sampling the iron-salt blood which seeps from it. The sheer agony causes makes Guts’s universe spin, and he almost loses consciousness. Or vomits. Almost, but not quite.

_I want you, Guts._

Femto’s thrusts accelerate suddenly, each stroke pulling almost all the way out until his crown catches on the muscular ring of Gut’s asshole, and then plunging back in all the way to the hilt, their flesh coming together with a sharp slap. It seems like he is _everywhere_ , unimaginably hard and hot, touching all of the soft, secret places in him and making him twist and writhe in ecstasy. Guts thinks he can feel him in his throat, and his cock is hard now too, lying throbbing and untouched on his belly.

It’s never over quickly, Gods preserve him—it continues like this for hour after hour after unnumbered hour. Every time Guts is close, teetering on the precipice of violent orgasm, Femto freezes, pinning him to the cold, unforgiving ground while Guts bucks and shakes and roars his frustration to the heavens. Only when the tension ebbs do Femto’s talons dig into his buttocks, lifting him and pulling their hips together so that he may resume his thrusts.

Eventually, Guts is reduced to utter mindlessness, tears caking in his lashes. He can’t stop, and every thrust of Femto’s cock is met in the middle with a corresponding surge of Gut’s hips. He is begging, pleading, entreating, _praying_ for release, and it is then, and only then, that Femto allows him to come, applying a series of savage jabs to his prostate as his semen pours out of him in searing, painful pulses that seem to go on and on and on for an eternity of paradise or damnation.

His orgasm triggers Femto’s, and Femto arches above him, wings outstretched and quivering, as he sows his accursed seed within Gut’s entrails.

_And now you are mine._

Now, finally, he dares to look. They are still joined, sweating and sticky, panting heavily from their exertions. Lidless, reptilian eyes stare down upon him, consuming his universe with their depthless blue, and bruised purple lips meet his in a long-awaited, much-anticipated kiss. Their tongues duel and dance. Are all those hungry, lesser monsters watching them? Guts doesn’t care. He twines his limbs around his demon lover’s body and holds him close—there is nothing between them anymore. Nothing save their haunted memories of friendship…and love. Femto’s wings rise, casting them both into protective shadow. No one has permission to witness this moment of vulnerability.

Guts squeezes his eyes shut again. He remembers a field of green grass. He remembers gazing up at Griffith, young and pure and radiant, framed by the warm white light of the sun shining in the cloudless sky behind him.

_Will you come with me?_

“It doesn’t have to be like this, you know,” he says. “You could still come away with us…with _me_. Griffith, will you come with me?”

There is a pregnant pause before Femto chooses to speak. “No, Guts. It is far too late. I have made my choice and been reborn. I will have my kingdom.”

He accepts what he hears with a sigh of resignation. He hadn’t really expected a different answer. It is, after all, always the same. Nevertheless, they lie together until the first light of morning, and Guts sleeps peacefully, his dreams untroubled, because he knows that, for the remainder of this particular night at least, he is safe from the demons.

Well.

All the demons, that is, save one.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to the exchange on December 23, 2017.


End file.
